You Better Watch Out
by XMarisolX
Summary: When Holt replaces Peralta's annual Santa Roundup with the Nine-Nine's first Secret Santa, it leads to a round of the precinct's trademark shenanigans. Written for amathela (Zhailei) as a treat for Yuletide 2013.


**Word Count:** 6280  
**Author's Note:** Written for amathela (Zhailei) as a treat for Yuletide 2013. Prompt: _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_, Rosa Diaz, Amy Santiago; What other traditions, rules, or games did they have before Captain Holt came on board? How do they try to continue/resurrect/adapt them?  
**Disclaimer:** _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ is an American crime comedy created by Dan Goor and Michael Schur, and is produced by them along with David Miner, Phil Lord, and Chris Miller. It is a Fremulon and Dr. Goor production, and airs on FOX. All characters, plots and creative elements derived from the source material belong exclusively to their respective owners. The author of this fan fiction, does not, in any way, profit monetarily from the story.

* * *

The precinct was abuzz with the normal chatter, clangs, slams, and occasional scream that typified a Brooklyn police station—that is, with the additional flare of festive decorations that befit the time of year. Despite all the commotion, Amy's attention was elsewhere, and she had spent the previous ten minutes (and much of the preceding night) gazing intently off into the distance, wracking her brain for Christmas gift ideas for the Captain. She was entering minute eleven when she felt someone crouching by her ear.

"If you're constipated, they have stuff for that."

Amy looked up, surprised to see Gina standing there.

"If you hold that stuff in," she continued in a raspy murmur, "it's really bad for you."

Finally her words started to register with Amy. "What?!" Amy replied. "Ew. No. I'm not constipated."

"Oh, right," Gina said. "I believe you," although her tone indicated that she actually didn't. She cupped her hands around her mouth. "I have an Ex-Lax in my desk," she said as she slithered away. Amy jumped up and grabbed her arm.

"Wait," Amy said, urgency in her voice. "You're the person I need to talk to." She fidgeted with her hands as she spoke. "Listen: what do you think about personalized Christmas carols?"

"I've never heard of them before, but they sound stupid and weird," Gina said, and turned around to keep going.

"C'mon!" Amy said, trailing her. "I've given this a lot of thought and I was hoping, _Gina_, that you and the rest of everybody would be a good sport and help me sing a personalized Christmas carol for Captain Holt." Gina finally turned back around. Whaddya say?"

"Um, no," Gina said.

"Why not?"

"Because that sounds creepy as hell _and_ I can't sing."

"You can sing a little."

"No, I can't."

"Aww," Amy moaned.

"And neither can you."

Amy's mouth dropped, appalled. "Yes, I can."

"No you can't."

She relented some. "I can hold a tune."

"No, you can't."

"Well, I have a pleasant voice."

"Uh, no you don't."

Their verbal volley ended with Peralta standing on a chair and banging the side of a can of Diet Coke with a mechanical pencil, creating a series of dingy thuds. He looked at it with disappointment; it hadn't had the sonic resonance he'd hoped for.

"Hear ye, hear ye," he yelled over the bustling masses. Everyone turned towards him, then immediately resumed whatever they'd been doing.

Except, of course, for Charles. Stepping forward, he rallied his fellow cops as he did. "You heard the man, guys. Let us gather together. Maybe he wants to treat us all to lunch."

"I don't," Jake said, "but, thank you, Charles."

A couple others—including Amy and Terry—began to slowly give him their attention.

"And you, Diaz?" Jake asked, looking at the back of her head. "Aren't you a little curious about what I'm about to say?"

"Not really," she said, not even pausing to turn around.

"Even if I told you it was an opportunity to see children cry. _Legally_."

She sat up. He had her.

"Fine," Rosa said, standing and taking a few steps closer, "but if this is boring I'm blaming _you_." She was pointing at Charles. He was somehow flattered.

"I am happy to be your scapegoat," he replied humbly, bowing before her with one arm outstretched and the other folded across his chest.

Rosa looked at him with thinly-veiled disgust. "Get up."

"Your wish is my command," he said, rising just as elegantly.

Having apparently reached a quorum for his ad hoc meeting, Jake leapt from the desk and cleared his throat. "I'd like to take this opportunity to remind the Nine-Nine that it is December 14, and we all know what that means."

The dumbfounded faces staring back at him indicated that they didn't.

"Nobody?"

Amy was bored. "A partridge in a pear tree," she said with a sigh.

"_Clooose_," Jake said, smiling widely, "but no cigar. Who's next?"

Fortunately for no one, Scully took a stab at it. "Does it mean that I need to get an ointment refill for the rash on my hands?"

"Um, probably, but I was looking for something else." Jake's eyes drifted down to Scully's red, flakey, peeling palms, and he shuddered with a quavering lip. "Gross, Scully. _Really__?!_ Put on some gloves. _God_."

"I know what it means!" Gina blurted, suddenly perky. "December 14 means that my boyfriend's husband is out of town, _sooo_ I can sleep over."

Jake was confused. "You're dating a gay man?"

"Of course not," she answered, sincerely baffled. "What gave you that idea?"

"Oh, I don't know," Jake said. "Maybe because there were too many dudes in that sentence?"

She mentally reviewed her statement, and then gave him a look that was dripping with condescension. "Poor Jake. It's like you're not even from New York City." She sighed. "For a small fee, my boyfriend, Todd, agreed to be in an immigration marriage. After two years, Wishtalu will get his green card and then they can get divorced." She tilted her head in pity, poking out her bottom lip. "Whether you like it or not, Jake, marriage equality is the law now. Heteros aren't the only ones that get to abuse the system." She snapped her finger twice. "Keep up."

"So the moral to that story," Jake said, "is that you don't know the answer to my question. Anyone else?" He surveyed the crowd, only to be met by more blank stares. "Really? Does no one know what December 14 means?"

Hitchcock gasped. "I know. It means—"

"Nope," Jake interrupted. "It means the Twelve Days of Christmas Santa Roundup starts _now_!" he said, brimming with delight. "This year, whoever bags the most hirsute, jolly, giant elves by midnight, Christmas Day, wins a signed copy of—wait for it—Rachel Rae's cookbook, _30-Minute Meals_!"

_Crickets._

"Who the hell wants that?" Rosa asked. Jake shrugged.

"I dunno, but it was the only signed book I could find in my mom's house, so, you're welcome."

"I'm out," she said and started back towards her desk.

"And, and, and..." Jake continued, "you didn't let me finish. You also get a 70-inch, flat-screen, Sony television, with an Ikea DVD rack, and an Apple TV box to go with it."

This added announcement, and rather extravagant offer, was met with squeals, laughter and some minor applause.

"Up top!" Charles yelled, and the two men shared a high-five.

"Now I know what I'm getting my baby for Christmas," Terry said, with a single fist pump.

"C'mon, Peralta, be real," Amy said, crossing her arms and supremely incredulous. "Can you even afford that?"

"No," he said sheepishly, but then instantly started smiling, showing all teeth and gesturing with his pointy finger, "but it doesn't matter because I'M GOING TO WIN. This year. _Again_."

"You're on," Rosa said, a smug smile on her lips, and walked towards Jake palm first.

"You're on!" Charles echoed, and leapt up, intercepting the high-five. She scowled at him.

"Don't touch me," she said.

"Done," he said, and took one, large step away.

"And with that," Jake said, in an awkward segue, "start your engines, boys!"

"And _girls_," Amy added.

"Yeah, girls too," Jake added. "Well, actually, _not_ girls too because I'm going to win. This year. _Again_."

"Fat chance," Rosa said, already back at her desk and working. "There are three shopping malls within a one-mile radius of my house. Santa is literally everywhere."

"Nice plan, Rosa," Jake said with a toothy, facetious smile, "for an amateur. While you're off playing game cops and robbers," he said, holding up a stapled stack of papers, "I'll be perusing this print-out of the entire database of sex offenders currently living in our precinct. Dollars to donuts, 60-percent of them are somewhere picking up their Saint Nick costumes from the dry cleaners as we speak."

Amy had heard enough, and she was beyond disgusted. She took off for her desk shaking her head. "You guys really know how to ruin a holiday."

"Meaning?" Jake said.

"_Meaning_, instead of decorating your desks with pinecones and red ribbons, or brewing hot chocolate with marshmallows and candy canes, you're actually hoping that some sicko is out there violating his parole. Where's your holiday spirit?"

"Hold on," Charles said, disbelieving. "Is this the same girl who ridiculed my Mario Batali costume for Halloween? And in a very 'bah, humbug' fashion, I might add?"

She rolled her eyes. "Halloween is one thing, Charles. Christmas is totally another. It's the time of year when we aspire for something more: more generosity, more merriment, more joy. We're supposed to be making time for sharing, for family, for reflecting on the important things in life."

"I agree with you, detective." It was Captain Holt, who had suddenly appeared behind her.

She turned around, euphoric. "You do?" she said, glowing.

"I do. Somehow, however, I have a hunch that Peralta may be perverting it into something else."

"What would ever give you that idea, Captain?" Jake said, suddenly shuffling papers on his desk with gusto.

"Because whenever Detective Santiago starts giving spontaneous lectures, you are usually the culprit."

"Thank you, sir," she said, then furrowed her brows. "I think."

"Actually, with all due respect, sir," Jake said, making a sweeping gesture across his desk, "I was just sitting here, minding my own business, working diligently, and merrily singing Christmas carols. In fact, this one is dedicated to you." He puffed out his chest and cleared his throat. His voice was throaty and out of key. "Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Make the Yuletide gay." He stopped there and smiled.

Captain Holt didn't. "Is that a none-too-subtle reference to my sexual orientation?"

Jake froze. "Um, no, sir. Of course not. _Pffft_—what gave you that idea? It is a reference, to..." He bowed his head. "Yeah, maybe it was."

"You do recognize, Peralta," Holt continued, "that that was not only juvenile but, according to the New York City Code of Conduct for Law Enforcement, First Responders and Civil Servants, statute 2981, your actions may qualify as 'creating a hostile work environment' and 'Level One sexual harassment.'"

Awkward pause.

"Nah, Captain," Jake said dismissively, walking towards his superior. "This is one big misunderstanding. I'd never do that." He punched Holt in the arm. "Why so glum, chum?"

"I'm not glum," he replied. "I'm simply pointing out the grounds of your misconduct."

Jake responded with a fake frown, and replied in a mumble. "Well, you're not making the Yuletide gay."

Holt tilted his head, giving the detective a disbelieving glare.

"_Which_," Jake continued, "I meant in the original meaning of the term—happy, cheery, and gleeful—and not in the way that could, um, get me fired."

Holt's glaring eyes narrowed to scathing slits.

"And I'll just...go...to my seat...now," Jake said.

"Wise choice," Holt said and began to walk back to his office.

Santiago saw Jake's screw-up as her way in.

"Captain Holt," she called after him, spunky and bright.

He turned around. "Yes, Detective Santiago?"

"Do you like live Christmas caroling?"

He thought a moment, his face stoic and stern. "Not especially, no."

She cleared her throat, but was undeterred. "Well, I know that Peralta just ruined the idea for you, but what if it was a happy Christmas carol, one that was personalized just for you in a non-sexually-harassing way?"

His face was unchanged. "I'd probably like it even less, as it would be awkward and cloying."

"_Yeeeah_," Gina said, refreshing her lip gloss in a compact mirror as she leaned against the wall, "that's what I said."

"No," Amy countered, "_you_ said it would be stupid and weird."

She shrugged, her face smug. "Same difference."

Holt watched the two women and had a revelation. "What I believe this station really needs is direction and leadership in how the holiday season should best be observed in a professional environment. Since you are all gathered anyway, I'd like to announce a new institution here at the Nine-Nine: a Secret Santa."

"Original," Peralta mumbled under his breath.

"I'm sorry. I didn't catch that, Peralta," Holt said. "Did you have a comment you like to share?"

Jake looked up, plastering a smile on his face. "No, Captain. I'm A-okay!" he said. He lowered his head, mumbling again. "I liked my idea better."

Holt moved on. "Christmas is not the time for originality, Peralta," he said, having caught the comment after all. "It's a time to for observing hallowed tradition. A Secret Santa is just such a tradition, and one that is appropriate for the workplace."

"Totally agree," Charles said, leaning forward on his knees. "I'm a GREAT Secret Santa. At my last station, _everyone_ hoped I would draw their name. One year, I got someone a Mustang."

Amy's head snapped to him. "You mean, like, a toy horse?"

"Nope," Charles said, tilting back in his chair with his arms crossed, "the sports car. Of course, it was pre-owned, and had been in a traffic accident involving a fire hydrant and an endangered blue heron, but after a little body work and an out-of-court settlement with PETA, it was out of impound and purring like a kitten."

Terry looked at Charles, one eyebrow raised. "Wait. Isn't there usually a cap to how much you can spend, like, 15 or 20 dollars?"

"Yeah," Charles said, with a hard sigh, and he let his chair swing back to its upright position. "About that: the gift _did_ create some tension in the office, BUT I got a date out of it." He looked at Rosa. She turned her face.

"So, it's been decided," Holt finally said, putting a period on the madness. "Secret Santa, 20-dollar price cap, due by December 24, Christmas Eve. The drawing will be held tomorrow. I'll be consulting with Gina to arrange the details."

Gina leaned forward. "And I will be excepting tips for my efforts."

"No, you won't," Holt said.

"No, I won't," she said.

He scanned the crowd, his eyes stopping when they reached Jake. He spoke in a voice even more smoldering than usual. "I expect _everyone_ to participate."

"Ay, ay, Captain," Jake said with a salute. Holt sauntered towards his office. When he was gone, Jake turned to Charles, smiling with two thumbs up.

"Twelve Days of Christmas Santa Roundup," Charles said, nodding. "Got it."

* * *

Sometime after lunch, the activity on the station floor was disrupted by the sounds of a loud commotion. It was coming from just outside the double doors, somewhere on the stair landing, and it sounded a lot like two people tussling. While the occasional kerfuffle was common, this particular scuffle lingered on for far too long, and Terry looked up.

"What the—" he said while rising from his chair, and he started towards the door when Jake stumbled in, pushing a man in handcuffs ahead of him. Charles trailed them both.

"Everything alright?" Terry asked.

"Yep, Sarge," Jake said, smiling widely, his striding steps and turned-up chin projecting inflated assurance. "I have everything under control. I'm just walking this young, well, old, well, _middle-aged_ man to lock-up."

"Yep," Charles concurred. "Nothing to see here."

Terry eyed them suspiciously as they walked by.

Amy watched too, one eye squinting. "Peralta?" she said, pointing. "Why is he wearing footed pajamas?"

The man yelled back an answer. "'Cause he made me take my clothes off!"

"_Whaaat?!_" Jake said, gob smacked, and followed the statement with a bemused chuckle. "What are you talk—He's confused. You know how criminals are." He made the gesture next to his head for "crazy." "I can take it from here, Charles."

"Got it," Charles said, and walked off for his desk.

Just as Jake was exiting through the side door, Gina entered in the front, wearing a Santa cap and holding an oversized mug.

"Festive hat," Terry said, still close to the entrance.

"You like it?" Gina purred, writhing flirtatiously.

"I do," he said, his eyebrows raised cheerily. "Where'd you find it? I was looking for one for my wife."

Gina's body language drooped at the mention of the _Mrs_. Terry. She pushed the cap further back on her head and out of her face. "I just now found it outside on the staircase landing. There was a Santa costume next to it, too, but it smelled like piss."

Everyone exchanged repulsed looks.

"I knew it," Amy grumbled to herself.

"Okay," Gina said. "Holt told me that I had to do this Secret Santa thing. You guys already wrote your names on slips of paper this morning and turned them in to me. So now, just pull your name out of this mug and buy yourself something, but don't tell anyone what it is."

That didn't sound right to Scully. "Aren't we supposed to pull someone _else's_ name out of the mug and not tell anyone whose name we drew?"

"I really can't take orders from someone who has hand herpes," Gina said.

"It's not herpes," Scully protested. "It's psoriasis."

"Right," she said, then mouthed, "It's herpes."

"Fine," Rosa said, standing up. "Let's get this over with." She walked over, plucked a folded piece of paper from the mug, opened it, and silently read the name.

Charles cleared his throat loudly. "In the case that you are perplexed as to what to purchase, I am partial to Asiago che—"

"I didn't get you," she said, and dropped back down into her chair.

* * *

As luck would have it, Amy had drawn the IT guy, Savant's, name. Worse, he had figured it out and, ever since, had been tormenting her with unsettling gift ideas, including a radar detector and a Fleshlight. Meanwhile, Amy had spent the better part of the week trying to covertly ascertain who had drawn Captain Holt's name. While her methods for getting the information she wanted from her workmates had never been covert, at this point, they were about as subtle as a jackhammer during a funeral.

She spotted Rosa at the break room snack machine and jogged over. "Rosa, quick question," she said as Rosa tried to straighten out her crinkled dollar bill. Rosa cut her off.

"Am I Holt's Secret Santa?" she said flatly.

"_Actually,_ I was going to ask if I could use your stapler," Amy replied over the sound of Rosa banging on the side of the machine, "but that's a good question, too."

"Yes," Rosa grunted.

Amy visibly brightened. She could barely believe her ears. "Really?!"

"Yes," Rosa said, in between blows.

Amy's smile fell. Something was wrong.

"Are you lying?" she asked.

"Yes," Rosa said. Just then, the dollar went in. "YES!" Rosa said with a celebratory gesture.

Amy turned and walked off.

Slowly, she ambled up to Terry's desk, lifting a picture frame from the corner. "Are these your twins?"

"I'm not telling you whose name I picked, Santiago," he said, without even turning away from his screen.

"I wasn't going to ask you that," she said.

He stopped typing and met her eyes. "Then what were you going to ask me?"

"I, um, was going to...well, since you _must_ know, I was, um...you know, only because you asked, uh...Well, what diet supplements do you take again?" She nodded, a bit too earnestly. "I've started working out more."

His face was dead-panned as he answered. "Branched-chain amino acids, casein protein, glutamine, creatine, and medium-chain triglycerides."

There was a long pause as Amy looked on, dumbfounded, her lips puckered and turned to the side. "Thank you," she croaked, and slinked away.

As she made her way back to her desk, she overhead Charles talking to Scully.

"So, did you get it?" Scully asked in a guarded whisper.

"Consider your George Foreman Grill wrapped and under the tree," Charles replied, lifting his arm and twirling his hand with panache.

"AH-HA!" Amy blurted, pointing to Boyle with an accusatory index finger.

Charles was terrified, and recoiled in horror. "I got it at an estate sale for 16 bucks," he explained, "but I didn't want to tell him that. It was still in the original box."

"I'm not talking about the price, Boyle," she said. "I'm talking about the fact that you gabbed to Scully. _Now_ I know you don't have Holt." She gasped and covered her mouth. "Not that I care."

"Amy," Boyle said, his voice pitched high and his hands pressed together in remorse, "I hate myself for breaking the rules, but I have a reputation to uphold. I'm a GREAT Secret Santa. If I get it wrong, even _once_—"

"I don't care," she said and walked off, sullen and forlorn. She plopped down in her chair and dropped her head to her desk.

"What's biting you on the butt, Santiago?" Jake asked, perching himself on the corner of her desk as he alphabetized a stack of papers in his hands. "Or is it just another anal-retentive day in the neighborhood?"

"It's nothing. Go away," she mumbled.

"Still haven't found out who Holt's Secret Santa is, I see."

She looked up and her hair, scattered and wild, was covering her face. "Why won't anyone help me out? I mean, I keep dropping hints, but no one is biting."

"Maybe it's because you look like you just crawled out of a swamp," he said, gesturing towards her disheveled appearance.

"You're going to look like you crawled out of a swamp when Holt finds out your aren't participating."

"Excuse me for _doing my job_ while you infants were playing the most boring Christmas activity in Nine-Nine history."

"You were arresting a Santa," Amy reminded him.

"Which is the most epic Christmas activity in Nine-Nine history. Up top!" he said, but Amy left him hanging. "Where's Boyle?" he muttered.

"I'm serious, Peralta," she said, pushing the hair from her eyes. "Giving Holt this Christmas gift would mean a lot more to me that it would to, I dunno, Scully or Hitchcock or..."

Just then Gina walked by. "Does anyone _need_ change for a dollar? It's unlucky to have 13 quarters in your wallet and the snack machine is only taking bills now."

"Sorry," Jake said.

"And you?" Gina asked Amy. Amy just glared back. Gina nodded once and started to walk off. "The Ex-Lax offer still stands," she muttered as she went by. Amy turned to Jake, stewing.

"It would make you feel better," Jake said with a facetious smile.

"It would make me feel better if I could just figure this out," Amy barked back.

"You know what," Jake said, with a snap of his fingers. "Maybe you should hire a detective. Oh—that's right. You _are_ a detective. But, that can't be right. Don't detectives know how to solve puzzles?"

"Shut up, Peralta," she said rising and pushed him off her desk.

* * *

A week had come and gone since Holt had made his announcement about the discontinuation of the Twelve Days of Christmas Santa Roundup, so naturally, Peralta only had one thing on this mind.

"How many Nicks have you nicked?" he said, rolling his chair near Charles's desk and leaning in close.

"Um, zero," Charles said. "Unless you include that dominatrix hooker who dresses like Mrs. Clause—"

"I don't."

"Okay, then zero."

Jake placed a sympathetic hand on Charles's shoulder. "I understand," he said.

"Really?" Charles said, brightening, "because I thought you were totally about to tell me how lame I am and what a better detective you are than me."

"Oh, I am a better detective than you."

"What?!" Charles said, shocked. "How many have you caught?"

"Twelve."

"Twelve?!" Charles said with some mix between amazement and genuine disbelief. "That's a bit hard to believe. You would have to make almost two bags a day."

"Don't have to believe me," Jake said, his hands cradled behind his head, rocking back and forth. "Look at my arrest sheet for the past week."

Charles didn't even want to. "Gosh darnnit," he said. "What am I doing wrong?"

"Peralta." The rising intonation and baritone voice meant it could only be one person calling his name. "Correct me if I'm wrong," Holt said once he had Jake's attention, "but it appears that you are still pursuing that Santa arrest competition."

"You're wrong, sir," Jake said. "Secret Santa. All the way. The cheese grater from Amazon should be on its way any minute."

"So when you said, 'How many Nicks have you nicked,' to what were you referring?"

"Oh _that!_ You were standing here for that." He glared at Charles. "Well, when I said _that_ I was referring to the Twelve Days of Christmas Santa Roundup. Right. Oh, is that what you were asking about? Yep. That. I'm still doing that."

"May I see you in my office?" Holt said, and walked off without waiting for a reply. Taking a deep breath, Jake followed after him.

"Swamp Thing," Amy whispered as he shuffled by.

When he got to the office, he shut the door behind him.

Holt seemed displeased—anyway, as much as his face could show any emotion. "I thought I made it abundantly clear that your Santa arrest competition—"

"Twelve Days of Christmas Santa Roundup."

Holt glared back.

"Or arrest competition. The name's not important, really. It's the spirit of the holiday that counts."

"Your failure to comply with my order is potential grounds for insubordination."

"Seriously!" Jake said with a laugh. "Honestly, what's the big deal? These guys are far from model citizens."

"The 'big deal' is that what you are doing is illegal."

The smile dropped from Jake's face.

"Illegal? How? I'm just busting perps that are repeat offenders."

"What you are doing is _profiling_." Holt grabbed a folder from his drawer and dropped it on the desk. He opened the cover and pointed to the first page. "This guy you arrested—for possession of an illegal narcotics—was released 24 hours later because he's an informant for the adjacent precinct."

"He was totes guilty, though."

"The D.A. dropped the charges on _this_ guy," Holt said, pointing to another case, "because you pulled him over without probable cause, so the marijuana you found in his vehicle was inadmissible in court."

"Yeah, but I know a stoner Santa when I see one."

"This guy,"—Holt turned another page—"was not even committing a crime."

"In my defense, he had taken, like, a whole bunch of napkins from the Fulton Street Hoagie Shop, when the sign clearly stated 'three napkins per customer.' It was textbook petty theft."

Holt sat motionless in a way that seemed like an accusation.

"Okay maybe that one was a stretch."

"You have become so eager to win a silly bet that you are compromising due process and harassing an innocent segment of the population simply because of the outfits they are wearing."

"Innocent?" Jake said. "Every single one of these guys has a previous record from shoplifting to armed robbery."

"That doesn't mean you can violate their constitutional rights. If you make another arrest in the name of this Santa competition, I will be forced to take disciplinary action."

"But what if—"

Holt sat up straighter and set his jaw.

"I'll just leave now," Jake said and walked to the door.

* * *

Christmas Eve came soon enough and, while the rest of New York City, if not the whole US, was somewhere tucked in bed deciding if they were even going to bother taking a shower before noon, all essential personnel of the Nine-Nine (translate: everybody) was seated at the station floor gathered around Captain Holt as he said a few words.

"Christmas Eve is usually a slower day for crime, so since we have everyone present at the same time, I think it would be a great opportunity to share our Secret Santa gifts.

"Peralta's not here," Amy said.

"I don't believe he's participating," Holt said. He turned to his secretary. "Gina?"

"Yo?" she said, abruptly lifting her head from the desk. She, apparently, had been asleep moments earlier. "Yeah, that fax didn't come in," she said, slurring. "The machine's broken. Or something."

"I wasn't inquiring about a fax, Gina."

"Oh, then those cases aren't filed because the filing cabinet's broken."

Holt sighed. "Gina, I called your name so you could distribute the Secret Santa gifts."

"Right," she said, and after a full-body stretch accompanied by a protracted yawn, she reached under her desk and pulled out a small, red, white, fur-lined duffle bag, replete with poinsettia trim.

"Very festive," Holt said, faintly smiling.

"Yeah," she said with a grunt, and reached a hand inside the tote. "I needed a place to store my shoes. I don't want the leather touching these filthy floors." She pulled out one boot, then another, and put them on her bare feet. A moment later, she opened the bottom drawer of her desk, and pulled out a grocery bag full of the office presents. "Okay," she said, "just call me Santa 'cause I got the gifts."

"Thank you, _ahem_, Gina," he said. She approached the Captain and held the bag open. He reached down, pulling out a small box covered in red, shiny paper. "According to the tag," he said, "this one is for Detective Boyle."

Charles approached, taking the box in hand. He pulled out a small pair of scissors and carefully cut the tape away from the folded edges of the gift wrap.

"Seriously?" Rosa said. "Just rip the damn thing open."

"I handle all things I cherish with care," he said, and gave her a suggestive look. She grimaced back.

Opening the paper, it was a chef's knife. "Nice!" he said. "Someone knows me very well. Perhaps a young, brunette maiden that—"

"I already told you, I didn't get your name," Rosa said.

"You did tell me that," Charles said. "Of course, it wouldn't be a Secret Santa if you told me the truth, now would it?"

"We really must move on," Holt said, lifting the next gift. He had to lift it with both hands. "This one seems relatively heavy. It's for...Scully."

Scully skipped up, grabbed the package. "It's a George Foreman Grill," he said, delighted.

Holt cocked his head to one side, suspicious. "How do you know?"

"Boyle told me," he said, smiling, then motioned towards Charles. "Thanks, man."

Holt looked at Charles, begging for an explanation.

"I know I broke the rules," he said, his voice pained, "but I have a reputation to protect. I'm a GREAT Secret Santa."

"Let's move on," Holt said, grabbing the next "package." It was a DVD and it wasn't even wrapped. Stuck to the outside of it was a Post-It note that read "Terry."

"_La Vie d'Adèle_?!" he said when he read the DVD cover. He held the item up in distressed disbelief. "Who in the world would get me this?"

"I would," Gina said, her voice suddenly sultry.

"Let's try to remember the anonymous nature of this event," Holt said.

"I knew you'd like it," Gina said, ignoring the admonition. "Terry likes his foreign films."

"Terry doesn't like _this_ foreign film." He handed it back to her and went off towards his desk.

"Why not?" Gina said, crushed.

Charles answered. "_La Vie d'Adèle_ is a French film marketed in the US under title _Blue is the Warmest Color_. It's rated NC-17 and created a huge stir when it was released some months ago. Apparently it contains some rather graphic, extended, lesbian sex scenes."

"Yeah, I know," Gina said.

"I'm a married man," Terry huffed. "With baby girls." He shook his head, muttering. "_La Vie d'Adèle."_

Meanwhile, Holt had received a text message and suddenly had an announcement to make.

"It appears something has come up with my husband, and I'll have to be home within the half hour," he said. "Gina can finish distributing the gifts. I wish you all a Happy Holidays."

Amy knew he was in a rush, but absolutely couldn't miss this opportunity. "Captain Holt," she said, leaving her chair and racing towards him. "I'd hate to be a bother—"

"I'd hate for you to _be_ a bother, Santiago," he said.

She exhaled hard. "Right. Um, I know you have to get home, but if I could just have a couple minutes of your time, I would really appreciate it."

He looked down at his watch, and pressed a button that let out a small beep. "You have two minutes."

Amy took a huge gulp of air and began to speak—rapidly. "Well, I know we were only supposed to give one gift and that we were supposed to do it anonymously, but Christmastime is also the season for showing our appreciation and I just wanted you to know that I greatly appreciate all that you've done for me this year. As a seasoned officer with years of exper—"

Her speech was cut-off by the sound of bells ringing loudly, and everyone turned to see what appeared to be a large, bearded, older gentleman with a white beard and red suit entering the station.

"Ho, ho, ho and Merry Christmas," he said.

A chorus of "Merry Christmas" was returned.

"I am here for Captain Ray Holt. That must be you, you strapping young man," the Santa figure said to Terry.

"No, actually I'm Holt," the Captain replied. "How may I help you?"

"I have a delivery for you. A _song_ delivery." He whipped out a pitch pipe, blew out F major, and began the opening lines of "Christmas Time Is Here."

Though initially taken aback by the sudden bit of musical merriment, as the song continued—and mentioned Yuletide favorites of sleigh bells, snowflakes and carols—he was charmed and began to tap his foot. Amy watched with muted horror as her very first gift idea, which had been roundly shot down, was materializing in front of her very eyes. When this elfin caroler adjusted the last lines to say, "Oh that we could always divine/Such spirit through the Nine-Nine," she almost had a stroke.

The whole office erupted in applause. She erupted in fury.

"Who in the, ugh, _blue blazes_ stole my personalized carol idea?" she yelled.

Jake Peralta walked through the door. "That, fair Santiago, would be me," he said, then bowed with sophisticated aplomb. He was dressed in green slacks, a red tie, and a festive Christmas sweater.

"But I thought you weren't participating?" she said, marching forward several steps.

"I don't know where you got that from," he said.

"You weren't even here when the names were drawn."

"I just went to Gina later and swapped my name for her recipient. She happened to have Holt."

"But she had Terry's name, not yours."

"I swapped with Charles for Terry," she said.

"I swapped with Terry for Scully," Charles said. "I know he likes food."

"Hold on, hold on, HOLD ON!" Amy yelled. "If everyone was swapping names, then why didn't anyone want to swap with me for Holt?"

There was a long moment of silence.

"You never asked," Gina said.

Amy pressed her lips together, shaking her head. "Nice, guys," she said and stormed from the room.

"Look at her go," Jake muttered.

"Despite your typical antics and annoyance of Detective Santiago," Holt said, "thank you, Peralta. That was lovely."

"You are welcome, Captain." Jake said with a sigh. He pointed at the Santa. "Now, please place this man under arrest."

"Huh?" the Santa said.

"What do you mean?" Holt asked.

"I mean that I've been tracking this gentleman since the summer. Just when I thought I had enough on him, he suddenly disappeared. After some surveillance and a tip from a four-year-old Toys for Tots recipient, I realized that this gentleman, actually named Lawrence Ellison, has been using his singing Santa gig to deliver drugs all around town."

"You're a liar!" the man screamed. "I'd never do such a thing."

"Then would you be so kind as to show us the contents of your knapsack?"

The man glanced at Captain Holt then at Jake and took off. However, he didn't realize that Terry was standing there and, upon running into the 300 pounds of pure muscle, he fell to the ground. Kilos of cocaine fell out of his duffle bag. Gasps rang out around the floor. Terry snatched him up with one hand, slamming a man against the wall and on to his feet.

"Don't move," he growled. The man didn't budge.

Jake, for his part, couldn't be happier, and smugly sauntered over to the Captain. "Sir," he said, holding out a pair of handcuffs, "you do the honors."

"No you," Holt said. "It's your catch and thus your collar."

"No you, sir," Jake said. "I insist."

As they stood there in magnanimous deadlock, Rosa walked up and slapped a pair of handcuffs on the man's wrists. She smiled from ear to ear.

"I win."

"You win what?" Jake said.

"The Twelve Days of Santa Roundup," she said. "I'll give you my address so you can have the TV delivered."

"Hold on," Jake said, "I arrested 12 guys."

"Yeah, but none of them were actually charged with anything. I won. Fair and square." She snatched the man and walked him to lockup. "This was fun Peralta. Rematch next year?"

"Absolutely not," Peralta said. "That's it. Twelve Days of Santa Roundup is officially closed."

"So," Holt said, his chest swelling with pride, "I guess you finally learned the true meaning of Christmas."

"Nah," Jake said. "I've come up with a better idea: Yuletide Caroler Capture."

Everyone groaned.

"Excuse me," Jake said, pulling out his keys. "I have to go and see if the bank is still open. I might have to take out a loan."

* * *

**END NOTE:** Thanks so much for reading. Your reviews are welcome and cherished.


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